Balance
by SiriuslyJohnlocked
Summary: Teen!lock. Eventual Johnlock. Sherlock thinks he's perfect, above everyone, above caring. John thinks he's useless, average, dull. Maybe they're each just what the other needs. (Possible triggers later on.)
1. Or So They Thought

**(I'd appreciate if you point out any spelling/serious grammar mistakes. I try to avoid them at all costs but one or two usually tends to slip through the cracks.)**

_**Chapter 1- Or So They Thought**_

John Watson was useless, or so he thought.

When his sister had needed him most, he had neglected her, choosing his football practices over nights at home listening to her complain about her girlfriend, who John happened to think was a very nice girl- although he was still trying to wrap his head around to idea of his /sister/ having /girlfriend problems/- and now she had turned to alcoholism, instead.

His grades were average at best, and lower still since the season started back up, cast away beneath his hopes of being the school's next athletic star.

It wasn't even that he liked football that much. Sure, it was a bit of a rush, running down the field, dribbling the ball efficiently as he did, the crowd cheering him on with every step, but the truth was he had just wanted to be extraordinary at _something_. Sure, he'd earned team captain over the year 12 he'd competed against, and he was only in year 11, but that seemed not to do anything except make the team expect even more of him and put a weight on his shoulders. However, as far as he could tell, he wasn't good at anything else. He didn't even belong anywhere; not smart enough to be a nerd, not peppy enough to be a prep, not rough enough to even truly fit in with the jocks, his own teammates. The only thing John Watson would ever admit he was good at was caring, which he had discovered to be quite the weakness in his teenage years.

If he cared for a girl, they left him, in the end. If he told his sister he cared and she was in a drunken state, she would laugh in his face and call him a queer or something of the sort. And he hadn't had many close friends he cared about, but those he did care about, he lost. He just couldn't seem to win, and he wished he could learn not to care anymore, especially after last summer...No, he couldn't think about that right now.

Especially when the only memory that seemed to be able to cut through the splitting pain in his leg was the fresh one from tonight's football game.

The lights were bright upon the field. His team was just one point away from winning the game, and the clock was running out. Everyone in the stands or on the field could feel the tension in the air with every second ticking down in the glowing red numbers on the scoreboard. As John cast his gaze around the field, everything seemed to move in an exaggerated slow motion. He was acutely aware of the loud pounding of his heart and the panting rhythm of his breath; he saw a player from the opposing team take the ball and start to run it towards the other goal, and he heard the wild cheers of the home crowd as he, Bluebell High School's only player who was close enough to the ball, made a mad dash for it. His chest rose and fell rapidly to the beat of his feet crashing against the wet ground in the rain pouring down around him before he at last reached the opposing player. Expertly, he kicked out with his foot, stealing the ball smoothly before pivoting around and dribbling back down the field with just seconds left. The harsh lights shone on the sweat beading upon his forehead, but he pushed himself forward with every chant from the stands. Finally, he slowed slightly, getting ready to line up the final shot as the blood pounded loudly in his ears with the sound of drums.

The next thing John knew, he was on the ground. As he went to make the goal, a large player had come barreling toward him, expertly tripping him with a wicked grin, and John's foot instead kicked the ball uselessly into the air and down to the grass several feet to the side of the goal where in landed lamely, rolling a few more tantalizing inches towards the goal before it stopped completely. His leg twisted with a sickening crack as he fell to the ground, disbelief, embarrassment, and disappointment exploding within him.

It had been the biggest game of the year, and he had failed. He failed his team, he failed his school, he failed himself. It made him sick.

Without a backwards glance at his team, John painfully pushed himself up from the muddy ground and limped off to a bench behind the school; he couldn't stand to face his team, or his family, for that matter.

Sherlock Holmes was perfect, or so he thought. He was above these dull, useless people with their silly dramatics and ordinary minds. The only reason he'd come to this silly football game was because his brother had "borrowed" his car for a couple hours, too lazy to go home and get his own- he preferred other people to do the footwork- and he was stuck here until he returned, unless he got desperate enough to walk a few miles; even with the annoying, overly-dramatic sounds around him, he wasn't.

In front of him sat a girl in a shirt far too thin for this weather and tight black leggings, wrapping herself around a boy several years older than her and snogging him like her life depended on it. Sherlock looked away in disgust. _Relationships_, he thought, _how boring_.

Finally, it seemed that the game was coming to a close. The score was neck-and-neck, and he supposed he should care, but he continued watching indifferently, much more focused on deducing the people around him with a bored expression on his face, simply trying to keep his mind alert until he could go home at last and busy himself with his experiments.

_She's hiding alcohol in her purse, he doesn't have a father figure in his life, he's gay and using that girl as a cover-up, but I suppose it's for the best because she really doesn't like him anywa-_ Sherlock's thought process was violently interrupted by the groans of the home fans and the mean-spirited cheers from the visiting fans. He glanced at the field to see a player from the other team pumping his fist in the air and laughing as his teammates carried him off the field and a crushed-looking John Watson on the field, his leg laying at a distinctly unnatural, grotesque angle. Sherlock blinked, feeling a small tug of sympathy in his gut.

He shrugged it off. Why should he care? He didn't care much about anyone, really, and he had never even talked to John; he merely knew his name because it was so frequently thrown about the hallways amidst other football-related words Sherlock could frankly care less about. Still, he felt a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched John drag himself off behind the school, eyes watering from the pain, the lone tear on his face mixing in with the sweat.

Sherlock checked his watch. He still had about ten minutes until Mycroft was set to be back, and he supposed this could help kill the time rather than sitting in the stands waiting for everybody to clear out; and so, with a heavy sigh, he buttoned his tight blazer, tightened his scarf, popped his collar, and trudged off around the school after John.

John was just sitting on the bench, wishing he could melt into it. He felt empty, lost, and even more useless than usual. He stretched out his injured leg, back pressed into the cold metal arm of the bench, and let his head flop back, squeezing his eyes tightly shut with pain and indecision, wincing noticeably. He lay there like that for a minute or two, deciding whether or not to phone for his parents or an ambulance, before he heard approaching footsteps and quickly sat up- a little too quickly, causing his vision to swim for a moment.

When his eyes cleared up, he recognized the tall, slim figure of Sherlock Holmes approaching him, midnight hair glowing and piercing eyes flashing in the harsh light of the streetlamps around the school. He'd never spoken to this boy before, he only knew that he didn't seem to have any friends. It might've been by choice, as it didn't seem to bother him, although at this point it would be hard for him to find any friends anyway; the boy was constantly bullied.

He watched the lean figure with a quizzical expression, expecting him to simply pass by, but to his surprise, Sherlock stopped.

"Show me your leg." he said bluntly.

John gaped openly. "What?"

"I'm just trying to help, now show me your leg."

John had no reason to trust him; he'd never bullied Sherlock himself, but then again, he'd never stepped in to stop them, either. 3 years of sitting back as his friends tormented Sherlock obviously wouldn't give the boy any reason to warm up to him, so why was he trying to help John, of all people? This could easily be a trick; Sherlock finds the big-shot football captain, vulnerable and in pain, alone behind the school. Perfect opportunity for revenge, right?

And yet, John Watson lowers his leg slowly to the ground and stretches it out for Sherlock to examine. He watches the artificial light dance on the sharp planes of Sherlock's face as he kneels in front of John and inspects his leg with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Sherlock's phone beeps in the process, and he pulls it out in an instant.

**In the front. Be here in 5 minutes or I'm leaving you here. -MH**

John watches as Sherlock's fingers dance along the keys, receiving instant replies, having what seemed to be a whole conversation in a matter of a few minutes.

**You wouldn't dare. -SH**

**Try me. -MH**

**Back of the school. Football captain with broken leg. Use those "connections" you're so proud of to bring an ambulance over here, as he'll be too stubborn to call one himself. -SH**

**Friend of yours? Ha. Turning into quite the joker, you are, dear brother. -MH**

**Just a person of interest. Now do it. I'll be there in a minute. -SH**

"Broken." he tells John at last, with a final glance at the leg in question and straightening up with an unreadable expression. "Not badly, but I suspect you'll be on crutches for a while. You'd best get yourself to A&E, though, before you try walking on it again and make the break worse."

"I'll be fine." grunts John, wincing as he tries to pull himself off the bench. "Really."

Sherlock smirks. He was right about one thing, John was going to be stubborn about it. He places a hand on the boy's shoulder, pushing him back down onto the bench. "I'm sure. Despite that, an ambulance should be arriving in about, oh, 30 seconds."

John blinks hard. "Wait...what? Why are you doing this?"

He's still staring at Sherlock as the boy turns on his heel with a smirk and something alight in his eyes and heads back to the front of the school, his dark houndstooth Converse shoes crackling on the gravel beneath, pale complexion and breakable frame making him look like a ghost in the night.

Sherlock Holmes walks away without a backwards glance at the self-conscious,confused figure of John Watson, thinking that maybe this student was different from the rest of the school; perhaps he could be useful.

John Watson watches as the boy that doesn't care about anything disappears around the corner, thinking that maybe Sherlock's methods of distancing himself from everyone else may not be perfect, after all.

The blaring sirens of an ambulance have reached John's ears just as the sound of Sherlock's footsteps has faded into the night.


	2. The Experiment

_**Thanks so much for the feedback/follows/favorites I've already received. Much love x**_

_Chapter 2 - The Experiment_

John was swinging his way into school in the self-conscious manner he had every day since the game last week, wishing he could disappear. He stuck close to the walls, grateful that the people in front of him were willing to move out of his way rather than risk knocking him over, but he hated the way these bloody crutches called attention to him. Each time the bottoms smacked the floor, echoing slightly through the cavernous hallways of the school, he felt like he was sending out a cry of "Hey everybody! I'm John Watson, and I'm a failure! Look, I've got the crutches to prove it!"

He was hoping to make it to his first period class undisturbed, but naturally a few of his teammates decided it would be a good idea to stop by his locker and tease him as they had for the past few days. He supposed they didn't do it to be malicious, but it was still annoying. And he couldn't help but feel that, even if some of them could pick up from his body language that their jokes were far from amusing to him, they wouldn't stop. A small bit of revenge for losing the game for them.

Then again, maybe that was just John's conscience speaking.

He'd never really fit in with them; sure, they'd had some good times together, but John wanted something more than drunken partying and hook-ups. He wanted something /real/. A future with people he could trust. He looked at these boys, slamming the lockers with their meaty fists as they laughed unnecessarily loudly at their own jokes. These were temporary friends. They wouldn't be there for him when he needed them; that's why they still didn't know about what haunted him the most from his past. He knew they would never understand.

But, John supposed, he wasn't any more useful to them than they were to him. Sure, he would listen to them if they needed him too, but they weren't mature or caring enough for anything to affect them all that much.

John continued to smile half-heartedly in the face of their poor humour, but irritation was beginning to bubble up inside of him. They could stand here as long as they liked and not get in trouble, he assumed, because the teachers always seemed to turn a blind eye to the athletes, but now that John was of no use to the team, he supposed that luxury had come to an end, unless they pitied him because of his injuries- so far, no one really had. Not to mention his friends could /walk/. John had to get going.

"Hey, guys, I really gotta g-" he began, but he was cut off by Mark, possibly the biggest of his teammates.

"Oh, c'mon John, lighten up. We're just having some fun!" Mark laughed, slapping John on the shoulder. John began to sway unsteadily on his crutches.

Another one of the guys, Kadin, stepped in. He was small and slight, but he had a speed factor that they needed. "Aw, let him be, guys."

They all sniggered but decided not to press the subject further, so they moved on in their usual pack, each one of them slapping John on the shoulder as they passed. John tried his best to keep his balance, but he continued to sway as they walked away, wildly grabbing at the books inside his locker for something to steady him; his right crutch managed to find a patch of wetness, though- probably one of the guys' energy drinks- and down he went, sprawling out on the floor, injured leg twisting in the process. He swore he could see the last few that hadn't yet turned the corner look back at John's predicament and continue walking anyway. Some friends.

He lay there miserably for just a moment, wanting to give up, wanting to just lay there and not go to class or face his friends or his teachers or anything. As he brought himself up to his knees in a feeble attempt to get up, one of the textbooks he had reached for slid out, grazing his shoulder as it fell and pushing him back down.

Groaning, feeling like a character in some overly dramatic film, he rolled himself onto his back and lay on the floor, debating whether or not it was worth it for him to try to go to class now. It was a Friday, after all. Perhaps he should just go home.

As he thought this, a lone figure rounded the corner. Curly locks and pale elegance identified this character as none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock seems to notice John only when he's merely feet away. John looks up helplessly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

"What happened to you?" Questions Sherlock, raising a dark eyebrow as John was beginning to learn he did quite often.

"Don't ask," grunts John, trying to readjust himself. "But d'you think you could-"

The words haven't even left John's mouth before Sherlock offers him a long-fingered hand. John takes it gratefully, and Sherlock gingerly pulls him up, leaning back down to get his crutches and handing them to him, making sure John was steady on his feet before ducking back down, collecting his books, and pushing them back into his locker.

"Thanks." manages John, still wincing with the refreshed pain searing through his leg.

"You're quite welcome." Sherlock replies in that deep, crooning voice of his. Without another word, he slams John's locker shut and begins digging through his bag, seeming to be looking for something.

"Er- I still need stuff from there..."

"No, you don't. You're going home." Sherlock says. It's a statement that he doesn't seem to want questioned, but John questions it anyway.

"What?!"

"I'm taking you home. Nothing important's going on today, there's a pep assembly at the end of the day and classes are short. I was thinking about skipping out anyway, myself. You don't need to deal with that with a reinjured leg and those moronic friends of yours."

Too shocked to answer sensibly, John just says "My friends are not _moronic_, they're just..." He trails off, not knowing what to say in their defense.

Sherlock waves it off. "Whatever. Do you want a ride home or not?"

John eyes Sherlock up and down. "Why are you doing this for me?"

Sherlock merely shrugs, crystal eyes watching John intently. "I want to see if I'm right about you."

John's taken aback. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"I think you're different from these people. But before I choose you as a friend, I need to make sure. I can't have a useless idiot following me around everywhere, now, can I?"

"Friend? But you never have any fr-" John catches himself. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."

Sherlock smiles, a touch of amusement reaching his eyes. "No, you're right. I don't have friends. I choose not to have them weigh me down. But I've decided that maybe it's good to have someone that cares about you; someone to defend or hang out with or whatever friends do. I want to see what it's like as well, having a friend. I feel it could help me understand more about people in my studies in the science of deduction."

John didn't even bother regarding that bit, he'd read Sherlock's article about the science of deduction in the school paper last month, but he hadn't understood a single word. "Look, I appreciate your help and everything, but I don't favor being part of some big bloody experiment. And anyway, you've got the wrong man. I'm ordinary, below average, dull, and useless, contrary to what you seem to believe."

"That's exactly what makes you different, John Watson. You don't think you're some high-and-mighty man just because you can play football. You don't think you contribute much to others, when in reality, if my theories are correct, you have much to offer. You're caring, understanding, a tad hot-headed, strong...We're practically polar opposites, but I think that may be just what I need. Someone to balance me out. However, it might be a good idea to discuss this later, because I'm quite sure I can hear a teacher coming." Sherlock has found what he was looking for and now stands dangling his car keys in front of John. "So?"

John follows him down the empty hallways and out the door.

Once they have reached Sherlock's sleek, expensive-looking car, and John has laid his crutches carefully on the smooth leather of the back seats, he climbs into the passenger seat and eyes Sherlock carefully as he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. His backing-up was quite sloppy, John notices, and he seems to be fighting the urge to pull out into the traffic at distinctly risky points before he at last picks a safe time to turn out.

"Reckless driver?" asks John teasingly, but Sherlock seems to take it as a serious question.

"Sometimes. I figured, however, that for your benefit I should be more careful for the time being. I don't want to scare you."

John laughs, surprising himself. "Don't worry about me. After all, potential friends should know the worst about each other, right?"

Sherlock seems to perk up at this. "Is that your way of accepting my offer?"

"I suppose it is."

"Well then, John, I should update you on the terms and conditions of what you're about to get yourself into. Basically, if you decide at any time that I'm too arrogant, rude, stubborn, et cetera, for your taste, then I would hope you stick around for a while and try to put up with me, but you're free to quit on me at any time. I also feel the need to inform you that choosing me as a friend is practical social suicide, and you can expect some teasing from those 'friends'of yours. Potential abandonment. Gay jokes- that's all these idiots are capable of coming up with, as if it's some great insult. Those are the main things."

John blinked hard. He sat in silence for a moment.

"Not regretting your decision already, are you?"

"N...No. Just a lot to think about, I suppose. But I've been thinking about the guys lately, and maybe they aren't the sort of people I need to be hanging out with. I might as well give this a shot."

"Brilliant." Sherlock took out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking a drag when they slowed at a stop sign.

"You smoke?" asked John, surprised.

"Potential friends should know the worst about each other." Sherlock quotes with a small chuckle, rolling the windows down for John's sake.

John decides to let it go for now. He doesn't feel he has a right to lecture Sherlock right now; perhaps at a later date, if they eventually become close. But despite their current situation, they're basically still strangers.

"Um, Sherlock..." John begins eventually, noticing that he was being driven into increasingly unfamiliar territory. "I haven't given you my address."

"Oh! That's right, sorry, I'm not used to having to communicate things to other people. I need to make a quick stop. Is that alright?"

John nods slowly, not wanting to argue. He supposed it was for the best. He was supposed to be at school, after all, so his family wouldn't be expecting him home.

They continue to drive in silence until Sherlock pulled into a quite upscale subdivision, slowing down and taking side turns through winding streets until he stopped at a house. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and glanced at it and back up at the number on the mailbox to make sure he had the right house and unbuckled, getting out of the car.

Before he closed the door behind him, he leaned down, poking his head back in. "Coming?" He asked cheerfully.

"Coming...where, exactly? What are we doing here, Sherlock?"

"I'm just helping someone out. Should only take a few seconds, really. Just thought it would be nice to have someone there with me, for a change."

_Why not?_ thought John, and clambered out, holding onto the car and Sherlock efficiently slid his crutches out from the back and handed them to him. He followed Sherlock up the drive and to the front door, navigating up the few steps to the porch with a little difficulty.

A tanned, brunette man probably in his mid-twenties answered the door, looking pleased to see Sherlock. "Ah, Sherlock! Thank you for coming, really."

Sherlock took the man's extended hand with a slightly forced smile. "Good morning, Lestrade."

"Wasn't expecting you so early! I figured you'd be in school about now. But no matter, I'm grateful you're here early, actually. I've got a lot to do today. Er, who's your friend?"

John's mind was still too busy registering how quickly he'd been thrown into the rank of Sherlock Holmes' One and Only Friend to answer quickly enough, so Sherlock introduced the two himself. "Lestrade, this is my...friend..." He paused, seeming to roll the phrase around in his mouth, as if it was a foreign concept to him. "John Watson." He finished.

Lestrade shook John's hand as well, with a friendly smile, as he invited them in.

Once inside, John followed Sherlock's lead into a comfortable living room, where a pretty young woman that John assumed to be the young man Lestrade's wife sat smiling on the couch. Sherlock took a spot on the opposite end of the couch, gesturing for John to the armchair beside him.

"Now, Sherlock," began Lestrade, looking at him seriously, although he still had a kind glint in his pale blue eyes. "You know I'm too young to be promoted as of yet, so I don't have the kind of authority to allow you on the crime scene. But what I can do is show you pictures, answer some questions, and hope that I don't get caught."

_Crime scene?_ thought John. What had he done? He had accepted the friendship and trust of a boy he knew nothing about, giving up pretty much all of his hopes of an appropriate, acceptable social life, without a second thought. That's what he had done. So, therefore, the question was: _What had he gotten himself into?_

"That will suffice for this case, Lestrade. It's quite simple, if you ask me. Hand me those pictures, and I'll try to lay it all out for you."

Lestrade left the room for a moment to get the information for the case; moments later, the cries of a small child emanated from somewhere in the house. His wife excused herself and went down a hallway to address the issue with a tired smile.

John leaned over to Sherlock and whispered into his ear. "What, exactly, have you brought me into?"

Sherlock grinned with anticipation, eager to show his new friend this part of his life. "Welcome to the world of consulting detective work, John Watson."


	3. Testing the Hypothesis

Chapter 3- Testing the Hypothesis

It didn't take long for Lestrade to return with a file in hand, perching in an armchair adjacent to the mismatched pair that had settled themselves on the sofa. He leaned forward, sliding the file across the coffee table between them and sitting back, watching carefully as Sherlock greedily opened the file, scanning over the contents with a calculating eye. John couldn't help but lean forward curiously, glimpsing at the statistics, crime scene notes, and photographs as Sherlock flipped through them almost impossibly fast, John thought, for someone that was apparently trying to gather data from them. A minute or two passed in silence, before Sherlock sat back, resting his elbows on his knees and his hands pressed together beneath his chin as he closed his eyes.

"Simple." He said finally, with a scoff.

"Simple?" Lestrade repeated, echoing John's exact thoughts, raising an eyebrow at the younger boy in front of him.

"Yes, simple! Obviously." Sherlock opened his eyes, if only to roll them. He pointed suddenly at one of the crime scene photographs. "Look, there. Scratches on the floor, blood on the wall. Struggle, clearly, _however, _look at the doors and windows!" He exclaimed impatiently, shoving another photo closer to Lestrade. "Windows locked and untampered with, and logic follows that if someone thinks to lock all their windows at night, they'll lock the door as well. But the door shows no sign of a break-in. What does that mean?" He asked, and although the question was rhetorical, John interjected with a small sound of realization.

"The woman let the attacker in." He answered quietly, glancing at Sherlock.

The dark-haired boy turned to John with an excited grin akin to that of a child when his puppy did a new trick. "Exactly, John! She knew her attacker! Now, married woman, husband out of town- as we know- locked windows and letting a man in in the dead of night, who, as we can tell by the footprints that were found, was good-sized but not exactly threatening, and leading him to her bedroom, as that's where we found the most evidence and, obviously, was where her body was found. An affair, obviously, also judging by the fact that the inside of her wedding ring, which was found on her bathroom sink," He pointed to another photograph in the stack. "is clean, whereas the outside is dirty. Regularly removed, then. I won't bother with the rest of the specifics, but basically, Lestrade," He said, turning back to the older man. "Statistically, you're looking for someone she works with or otherwise knows, but not well enough to know her husband, around 6 foot, long stride, medium build. She works at a small firm, so that should narrow it down to a few males at most. Look for holes in alibis and text me tonight." And with that, Sherlock stood with a smug smirk, tightening his scarf and sliding his hands into the pockets of the coat as he prepared to leave.

"Fantastic…" John let out involuntarily, as he pushed himself up, grabbing for his crutches and settling them under his arms as he shifted his weight onto them.

"Is that so?" Sherlock prompted, not having missed the compliment. He looked at John curiously with an intrigued grin.

"Well, of course. Amazing. Absolutely amazing." John said, as if it was obvious, although he glanced away and tried not to blush underneath Sherlock's seemingly penetrating stare.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock smiled, intending to investigate and test the boundaries of that compliment later, but decided for now he'd best be going. Lestrade stood, running a hand through his hair as he walked them to the door, thanking Sherlock and promising to text him once he'd interviewed the potential suspects.

As soon as they were outside and John was maneuvering his way down the steps and through the driveway, back to Sherlock's car, he glanced at the taller boy. "So, that was your whole…deduction thing, yeah? I read your article about it in the school paper last month." He shrugged slightly, or as best as he could while walking on crutches.

Sherlock smirked, nodding. "Yes, it was. Although I admit your reaction was out of the ordinary- praise is hardly the response I'm used to." He sighed as he opened the back door and helped John stash his crutches in the back seat before the blonde settled himself back into the passenger seat. He walked around the car and got into the driver's seat, putting the keys in the ignition but pausing, watching John carefully. "Although I suppose it wasn't /you/ I was deducing…"

John raised an eyebrow at that, although it was true that he'd heard of more than one occasion where Sherlock's little trick had got him into trouble with John's mates- former mates? He wasn't even sure anymore. Maybe somewhere in between- when he'd told them that their girlfriend was cheating on them or something of the sort. "If you could tell as much about me with a glance as you could with those photographs, I bet I'd be even more impressed." He told him honestly. "Try me."

Sherlock sighed heavily, biting his lip and looking John up and down. Well, he supposed, now was as good a time as ever to test John's limits- although from his experience, he could expect at least some anger from the boy. No matter, it was going to happen eventually anyway, and he knew it. After all, he knew himself better than anyone. "Well…" He began, with a last glance-over at John. "Your sister's an alcoholic, getting ready to move out. You're close with her, but not close enough to move out with her, although your father's an alcoholic as well- although, I'm guessing, a more violent one than your sister. So you're staying home despite that, but your sister's provided you with a mobile," He nodded to the mobile-shaped lump in John's jacket pocket. "in hopes that you'll stay in touch or call her if you need her. You want to, but at the same time you want to distance yourself from your family altogether until you can get a flat of your own. Your father used to be in the military and your mum's…ah, not in the picture. Dead, most likely. Although your dad's not the best role model in your life, he's the only one you've got, and so you hope to be in the military as well. Perhaps without the violence and more about helping people, I'm guessing, judging by your personality- army doctor, then. You were in a car accident last summer, but you don't like to tell people about it or it'd be all over school. Perhaps the cause of your mother's death, and someone else as well. That boy you used to hang around last year…I heard he's passed as well, hasn't he? They were both in the car with you then, most likely. Having been in a car accident and losing your mother and best mate at the same time, it's likely you have PTSD and," He glanced down at John's hand. "an intermittent left-hand tremor, as well as a shoulder injury, likely from shrapnel in the accident. How am I doing so far?" He raised an eyebrow curiously, trying to read John's face.

John flinched visibly at the bit about the accident, turning away to face the window for a moment as he swallowed thickly, telling himself that Sherlock wasn't attacking him, just spelling out the facts as they were. Maybe…Well, just maybe it could be good for John to have a friend who could tell some things about him without having to be told. Despite Sherlock's obvious lack of tact, he was quite clearly a genius of sorts, and John decided that the two facts might be able to balance each other out decently. "Amazing…" He muttered, as involuntary as the last compliment he'd thrown at Sherlock, but true nonetheless.

Sherlock smirked as John complimented him again, although he was slightly surprised. "You know you do that out loud?" He asked, amused.

John felt himself blush, biting his lip and staring determinedly away. "Uh, sorry." He apologized softly.

"No, it's…it's fine." Sherlock grinned. "Nice to be appreciated for once. As I said, however, that's not the usual reaction."

"Oh?" John raised an eyebrow and couldn't help but glance back to Sherlock. "What is, then?" He asked despite himself, thinking he already knew the answer.

Sherlock chuckled, a little bitterly. "Usually 'Piss off', or a good punch to the gut, at least." He shrugged. "But no matter….Have I upset you? You seem bothered." He realized suddenly, noticing John's recent distinct lack of eye contact.

John sighed, his shoulders slouching a little. "No. Well, not really. It's just, ah, I never talk about the…what happened last summer, I mean, like you said. Just kind of caught off guard by that bit."

"Ah…" Sherlock bit his lip as he started driving, winding through the many streets of Lestrade's subdivision. "Sensitive subject. Noted. I'll try not to be an arse about it, although if I say something out of line you may want to tell me. I'm not exactly experienced in social interactions, as you probably know from school."

It was John's turn to offer a chuckle at that. "I noticed. That's alright, though. I'll remind you that you're not perfect if you keep thinking I'm not quite useless."

Sherlock smiled as they came to a stop sign that led to the main road, taking a left. "Fair deal." He decided. "Part of the experiment as well, perhaps. The effect that friends have on each other's self-image, behavior, and the like." He shrugged.

"Is everything an experiment to you?" John asked suddenly, before catching himself. The sentence may have sounded a bit ridiculing, he realized. "I mean…just curious, is all."

"Interesting things are." Sherlock returned easily.

John just nodded before turning back to the window, watching the passing houses and falling silent outside of giving Sherlock directions when they came to the necessary turns. Finally, they arrived at John's house, and Sherlock got out to help him up to the door on his crutches.

"Well…" John bit his lip as they came to the front door. "I'll…see you Monday, yeah?" He said, a little awkwardly.

Sherlock nodded. "As always." He replied, offering John a slight bow before he turned and strode down the driveway, getting into his car and speeding off.

John couldn't help but smirk slightly as 'careful' Sherlock was almost instantly replaced with 'reckless driver' Sherlock the moment he was alone in the car. He bit his lip, shaking his head and wondering what he'd just gotten himself into, before he disappeared through the front door, intending to do nothing that weekend.

John walked into school the following Monday not knowing what to expect. He maneuvered his way to chemistry class without incident this time, thankfully, and took up a seat in the back of the class, far from his teammates. He could practically feel their eyes on him and purposefully kept his eyes down, feeling his face burn and waiting impatiently for the bell, not remembering the last time he'd been so eager for a class to start. To pass the time, he took out a blank sheet of paper and started doodling. He was halfway through a decent dragon when none other than Sherlock Holmes strode in with a smirk, although John didn't even notice until the teen had already set his bag down and took up a spot in the seat beside him, glancing at his drawing.

"Impressive. Although I must say I think a hedgehog would suit you better." He greeted with a smirk.

John's attention was caught and his eyes flashed up immediately, flushing slightly but rolling his eyes. "Oh? And I suppose, out of the two of us, you must be the dragon, then?" He countered with a teasing smile. "Yeah, right. More like an otter."

Sherlock just grinned at him- he didn't want to admit it out loud and get _sentimental,_ but it was proving to actually be…nice….to have someone to talk to in class. Tease, even. A refreshing shake-up in the dull routine of his school days. He turned back to face the front of the class as the bell rang and their teacher dove straight in to some dull, over-simplified explanation of photosynthesis. Sherlock nearly yawned out of boredom before he had an idea and tore out a sheet of paper.

_Really, we're in high school. I think I know what carbon dioxide is by now. SH _

He scrawled the note and slipped it to John, who couldn't help but smile down at it, amused, and scribble out a note of his own. _I think it's especially for Mark. I thought about it over the weekend- you're right, he is a moron. And are the initials really necessary?_

Sherlock smirked as he read the note, deciding to keep up the conversation.

_Yes, I quite think the initials add that certain something. I text with them as well. SH_

_Oh? Fine, I'll do it too, then, if it's so cool. JW_

_If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do it too? SH_

_Depends, which friends? JW_

_Your football mates. SH_

_I'd probably just roll my eyes, in that case. JW_

_And if it were me? SH_

John paused, and his next note took much longer to write. Not because it was long, but because he had to think about it.

_I'd call you an idiot. JW_

_I'd be dead. SH_

_You aren't invincible? Pity. I'd hate for you to die. Although I'm sure you wouldn't actually be dead. You'd come up with some brilliant plan to make me think you died, then show up like three years later just to be a git. At which point I'd probably punch you. JW_

_You know me well already. SH_

_Git. JW_

_Usually. Want a ride home after school? SH_

_Beats walking. JW_

_Excellent. SH_

The rest of the class passed uneventfully, although Sherlock managed to slip a last piece of paper into John's jacket pocket while he was settling his weight onto the crutches at the end of class, striding out with a smirk before John could see it.

John didn't even notice the note until lunch, while sitting with his football mates. One of them asked for a bit of cash for their lunch- claiming to have forgotten theirs- and he'd decided that it was easier to just cough up the money than to argue. He reached into his pocket for his wallet and a slip of paper fell to the ground. When his friends left to mess around outside before history, he paused before he followed, reaching down to get the piece of paper and flipping it over to reveal a doodle of an otter and a hedgehog. He grinned down at it and doodled a scarf onto the otter and a football jersey on the hedgehog, adding a 'See you after school' beneath it. On his way out of the cafeteria, he passed Sherlock in his usual spot in the corner and slid the altered drawing into Sherlock's bag before leaving.

* * *

"I think a jumper would suit the hedgehog much better." Sherlock smirked from where he leaned on his car, his hands in his pockets, as John approached later that day.

"Really? I thought the jersey really accentuated his muscles." John countered after storing his crutches in the back seat, ruffling his hair with his free hand as he leaned against the passenger side, his other hand on the backpack strap he had slung over one shoulder.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Never knew the hedgehog was so cocky. His height was fairly accurate, though, I should think." He said with false innocence, digging the drawing from his leather messenger bag. "Yes, much shorter than the otter. I suppose it's acceptable, then."

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. At least the hedgehog isn't a git." He shot back with a satisfied smirk as he got in the car. "Taking me home or not?" He called.

Sherlock got into the car as well, starting it and backing out of the parking lot. "I'm not a git!" He insisted, pouting.

"You're most definitely a git."

"Fine, then what does that make you?"

John glanced at the doodle. "Adorable." He decided. "And still extremely muscle-y."

"I'm quite sure the correct term is 'muscular', John. Really, I thought you were intelligent." He teased right back.

"The term is whatever the hell the hedgehog wants it to be, unless the otter wants him to beat him with his crutches."

Sherlock chuckled, glancing over at John as he drove. "You know, John," He began thoughtfully. "I think I quite like this experiment. It's going even better than hypothesized."


End file.
